


Dead Men Don't Stay Dead

by suitesamba



Series: Dead Men Don't Bleed [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cross dressing (disguise), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:10:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 2 of "Dead Men Don't Bleed."   Sherlock puts his plan in place to disguise John as a woman and move back to London so they can continue working together. Featuring something very important they forgot to remember, an interesting meeting with Lestrade and Mycroft, a very useful handbag and a John's best-ever blowjob.</p><p>Chapter 1: In which Sherlock makes John take a bath and compliments his legs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Joseph and Pauline

**Author's Note:**

> You can find Part 1 of **Dead Men Don't Bleed[ **HERE on AO3**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/817644/chapters/1547917)**. Summary _Dead Men Don't Bleed (Part 1):_ John is passing his days holed up in a seaside cottage working through his grief by writing a memoir of his time with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, meanwhile, back in London, believes the obituary in the Times reporting that Afghanistan veteran Dr. John Watson has died. Sherlock seeks temporary refuge in his childhood vacation home – not knowing that Mycroft has gifted the little cottage on the sea to John. When the two dead men confront each other, the secrets they’ve been keeping have no place to hide.

-1- 

“I should go shopping today.”

John, brain still hazy and trying to absorb this new reality of a living, breathing Sherlock Holomes, blinked sleepily. He was crowded onto approximately one-third of the sofa, scrunched up into a near foetal position. Sherlock was occupying the other two-thirds, hands grasped together beneath slightly raised knees. He was staring at John. When John didn’t respond, he nudged his thigh with his long and amazingly dexterous toes.

“Shopping, John!”

John scrunched himself up even further. “Alright. Shopping. We’re out of muffins.”

Sherlock was silent for a minute, then the sofa cushions shifted and he stood. John immediately stretched out his legs.

“For your clothes. To a _boutique._ I don’t imagine this village will have what we need.”

“A boutique,” John repeated, his voice resigned.

He may have laughed at Sherlock’s suggestion – that John disguise himself as a woman so they could work undercover, together, while both were presumed dead – but Sherlock had proposed it in all sincerity.

John could argue that he was all but unrecognizable without Sherlock’s larger-than-life presence beside him, and his argument was valid enough. He didn’t stand out in any tangible way. He didn’t have Sherlock’s height, or brain, or sense of style. He was glad of that last bit – he didn’t have the income to support a Holmes-approved wardrobe. The dry cleaning bills alone would wipe out his meager bank account.

Sherlock had adopted his own disguise, of course. A neat beard and moustache, a shorter haircut, a change in wardrobe.

“I’m taking a shower before I go,” Sherlock said, when it was obvious that John was not going to jump up and make breakfast and a shopping list of women’s accessories. “I smell like I slept in a rubbish bin.”

“You slept on the sofa beside me,” murmured John. He’d turned on his side and was facing the back cushions.

“Precisely.”

He’d just been insulted by the master of social proprieties. 

It was no wonder they needed showers. Neither had bathed since Sherlock had given John the concussion and John’s laptop had nearly shaved off a piece of Sherlock’s skull. They’d done little more than sleep the day before, with occasional forays into the kitchen for juice and ice and the last of the muffins , fumbling on the table for the pain killers when a sleepy squint at the clock or Sherlock’s mobile told them enough time had gone by since they’d swallowed the last pills. 

And while Sherlock showered, ignoring John’s warning to keep the sutures dry, John, unable to fall back asleep, walked through the cottage, surveying the damage. He made inroads in the kitchen first, then began picking up discarded clothing and soiled bedding and towels.

Sherlock’s clothes had been – well, a surprise. 

The Sherlock Holmes he had known in London would never be seen in clothing like this. Ordinary clothing, non-tailored. Trousers that hung more loosely over his hips, a shapeless shirt of a synthetic blend. It suited him as disguises went, along with the beard and moustache and short haircut, and John bundled shirt and trousers and pants and socks away with the dirty sheets and towels. Then he sat on the sofa and tipped his head back and closed his eyes. His head couldn’t quite piece together this new reality, this new Sherlock. In a way, he was glad this Sherlock was different, and he sensed that the changes were much deeper than clothing and hair.

Sherlock was barefoot and wearing John’s dressing gown when he emerged from the bathroom. 

“I’ve drawn you a bath.” Sherlock’s voice followed him as John padded purposefully toward the bathroom. “You’re unsteady – a shower’s not the best idea. I’m not sure I could manage giving you stitches.”

John paused in the doorway. He disliked baths on principle, unimpressed with the idea of soaking in your own filth. But Sherlock was right. He _was_ unsteady still and there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d chance getting knocked unconscious and being Sherlock’s experimental pin cushion.

Sherlock slipped into the bathroom while he was soaking and sat unapologetically on the closed commode.

They had spent a large part of the previous afternoon tangled together on the sofa, sleeping in fits and starts. In that short span of time, they had developed a familiarity with the other’s body. John had woken once with his feet pressed into Sherlock’s thigh – Sherlock was awake again, sitting at the end of the sofa, John’s computer open on his lap. Later, after one long stretch of sleep, he had opened his eyes to dim twilight to find himself on his side, spooned up against Sherlock with Sherlock’s arm around his middle. Sherlock’s arm had tightened as he stirred, and the fingers on his belly, the rough chin pressed against his shoulder, the slow and steady breaths in his ear, felt strangely intimate to him, like stolen gifts of trust and peace in a long and restless night.

Now Sherlock studied him, and John felt rather like a specimen under the detective’s magnifying glass.

“Your legs are shapely, but too hairy by far,” he said, studying John’s body rather clinically. 

John lifted a leg, regarded it, then let it drop back into the water with an audible sigh. He knew where the conversation was going. 

“Women wear trousers, Sherlock. Loads of them do. Blue jeans.” He was not going to shave his legs. 

Sherlock seemed to tuck that away for consideration, but he had more data to process and more results to deliver.

“You have only a moderately prominent Adam’s Apple. A scarf will hide it. Geometric patterns. Silk, nothing gauzy or floral. You wouldn’t be an overly feminine woman.” He steepled his fingers under his chin and continued to study John. “Trousers - jeans, if you prefer. But black, not blue. A skirt would hide the more obvious aspects of your maleness….”

“The more obvious aspects of my _maleness_?” John teased, dropping the flannel innocently over said maleness.

“Fine. Your penis. Bulge, if you prefer, since we’re discussing your ability to pass yourself off as a woman. More of a problem, really, since you prefer boxers. Do you have an objection to switching to an athletic girdle?”

John opened his mouth – yes, he _did_ object – but Sherlock wasn’t waiting for an answer.

“Boots – you’ll have to tuck the jeans inside, of course. You have nice calves – the eye will be drawn down, then, away from your face. Heels would accentuate the legs even more.”

John watched, resigned, as Sherlock’s gaze fell on his chest, then traveled up to his head. He sank lower into the water and closed his eyes. 

“I don’t see you as a blonde…auburn, perhaps. Shoulder-length. Modern, but practical.” 

“That’s right – practical. Remember that, Sherlock. I can’t run in heels. We’re talking about a disguise – not a new lifestyle.” He caught Sherlock staring at his chest again.

Sherlock looked up at John’s face.

“There is nothing about a woman’s chest – or her underwear – that I find appealing.” He smiled slightly at the look on John’s face. “You were concerned about that.”

John’s lips twitched.

“I thought you might want to make the look as – well – as _authentic_ as possible. And in your mind, that might require lacy underthings. I thought you might insist that I’d make a more believable woman if I _felt_ more like one.”

“Ridiculous. Did you think I’d come back with a lacy brassiere and a thong? I can’t have you shifting around and adjusting yourself when we’re walking through London together, John.” He stopped abruptly. “John. You’ll need a different name. Do you have one in mind?”

John shrugged. “Mary.”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip. John thought he was trying to bite back a smile.

“No. Not Mary. Think of something else.”

“I like Mary. Why not Mary?” John’s head was beginning to throb. He didn’t want to think anymore. It was easier to be contrary.

“Because, _Mary_ , I’m going by Joseph these days.”

John chuckled.

“Right. Pauline, then.”

Pauline happened to be the name of his first girlfriend. She’d had shoulder-length auburn hair, come to think of it, and nice legs.

“Pauline.” Sherlock nodded. He watched John silently, then reached forward and ran his finger through the bubbles on John’s chest.

“It won’t always be business,” he said. His voice held a regret that seemed out of place coming from Sherlock Holmes.

He squeezed John’s shoulder lightly, then stood and left the room, leaving John to stare at the carpet of bubbles on his chest and the line Sherlock had drawn through it, directly over his heart.


	2. Chinese Take-Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: In which Sherlock brings home shopping bags and little white boxes, Sherlock reads Lestrade's e-mail and John tries on a wedding ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the [Dead Men Don't Bleed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/817644/chapters/1547917) series.

\- 2 -

Sherlock, dressed in his just-too-large clothing, with a grey stocking cap covering the bandage on the back of his head, left at nine to do the shopping.

“It may take some time,” he said, standing uncomfortably by the front door, hand on the door knob, and looking back at John, who was stretched out on the sofa, already half-asleep after the warm bath.

John, looking a good deal more comfortable than Sherlock, focused on Sherlock’s silhouette.

“Go,” he said. “And if you’re anywhere close to civilization, bring back Chinese.”

It seemed that Sherlock doubted John’s faith in Sherlock’s likelihood of returning more than John doubted Sherlock.

The day stretched out, long and lazy. John slept through noon, then scavenged something easy to eat, managed to get the sheets in the compact washing machine, then a load of towels, and finally the clothes. He wasn’t hopeful all the blood would come out, but didn’t have the energy to care.

He ran over train schedules in his head, wondering where Sherlock had gone. He’d not thought to ask. But Sherlock had been to this cottage many times, as a child and as a young adult, and would know where to go to get…well, to get the disguise.

And Chinese.

He opened his laptop. The memoir was open. Sherlock had been doing more than reading. He’d turned on change tracking and had left comments in the margins. 

_Your recollection here is faulty. Or is the hyperbole intended?_

_Excellent use of adjectives. Other words you might consider for Mycroft are imperious, condescending, hubristic, huffish and plonker._

_I’ve never really thought about my fingers that way._

_I don’t recall any such experiment. Really, John. Earmites don’t eat ears; they dwell in them._

John was sleeping again when Sherlock returned, and the daylight was all but faded away. He woke to the smell of Chinese take-away, and to the sound of Sherlock setting the food on the table in front of him. 

The shopping bags remained on the floor by the front door, exactly where Sherlock had dropped them. John glanced at them more than once as they ate. They were unfamiliar in color and design. One of them was a garish pink.

But it was the little white boxes that nearly undid John.

Everything else about this new reality was starkly different, easily separated from the complicated past they’d shared. A cottage instead of a flat. The sea air rather than the London mist. Sherlock’s bearded face. The easy way they shared their personal space in this oddly neutral territory. The way Sherlock had sat on the commode after his bath and watched John shave, how he had stared intently at John’s eyes, reaching out to hold his chin, then turning his face toward the light.

“I’m fine,” John had said. “I checked my pupil dilation myself this morning.”

“You’re fine,” repeated Sherlock. “Your eyes aren’t yellowed. It was a trick of the light.”

“Of course not,” said John. And with rare Sherlockian insight he realized that Sherlock must have looked up signs of pancreatic cancer, and focused on the jaundice-like discoloration.

But the Chinese take-away in little white boxes took him right back to 221B Baker St, to the sitting room with his chair, to Sherlock being Sherlock, the man he was before, to John staring at him, mouth agape, chopsticks frozen between plate and mouth, as Sherlock stared at the ceiling, tapping his finger on his chin, then jumped to his feet.

_I’ve got it! Come on, John. We’ll hardly make it if you dawdle!_

This Sherlock, _this_ man, seemed to have half the energy and twice the patience of the man who’d jumped from the roof of St. Bart’s all those months ago.

“Well, all right then, let’s see what you’ve brought,” he said. Because sorting through women’s clothing was the easy way out. Easier than confronting those feelings. Easier than the whys and the hows.

There was an astonishingly cohesive assortment of clothing and accessories. Nothing was too feminine, nor could it be described as boyish. Trousers and jeans. Tailored blouses. Three silk scarves and one cashmere. Two pair of leather boots and a pair of trainers. Socks and belts. Four solid-colored t-shirts. Two handbags. A watch. Three rings. Two brassieres, both padded, white, with front closures. Two wigs, of the same color and length, but one straight, the other with gentle curls. 

“I’ve taken a two-month lease on a small flat in Holborn. We can have it on Friday.” Sherlock was standing next to John, who was standing next to the bed staring at the clothing covering it. “You’ll need to try it on, John – you should be in disguise when we leave here. I’ve been assured it will all fit perfectly – they took your measurements from the clothes I brought in….”

“Wait.” John turned his head and stared at Sherlock. “The clothes you brought in? You took my clothes to a boutique and said…what? You had a friend who fancied dressing as a woman and you needed a complete ensemble in his size?”

“They didn’t ask questions,” Sherlock said, impossibly patient. “They were discreet – quite discreet. I tipped them rather generously for that discretion. They even had a woman of your approximate size and build model so I could see how the various pieces worked together.”

“They didn’t.” John wondered what a woman of his “approximate size and build” looked like.

“They did. She picked out the scarves, actually.”

“Right then.” John grabbed a pair of jeans and sighed.

Everything fit remarkably well.

The jeans weren’t all that different from his own. Better quality, and tighter in the thighs and arse. He tucked them into a black boot that came up to mid calf. The brassiere could have been much worse. The front closure was a brilliant idea – so he got it sorted rather quickly despite the shudder he’d felt when he’d first picked it up. He put on a black t-shirt and a white blouse over it, leaving the blouse unbuttoned. He had no idea how to tie the scarf, so he draped it around his neck.

Even the rings fit. He twisted the gold band. He’d never before worn one.

He considered the wigs, then reached for the straight one. He pulled it onto his head like a hat.

“Hmmm.”

“What?” John spun around to face Sherlock. Sherlock was assessing him. He didn’t look like he wanted to laugh, but John couldn’t believe he wasn’t about to. He pulled the wig off again and dropped it on the bed.

“You know what? This is ridiculous. I don’t look like a woman. I don’t move like a woman. I don’t _think_ like a woman….”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Sherlock, gesturing at John. “You put together that ensemble rather well.”

Good God the man was _joking_. 

The ensemble was soon discarded on the bed and John, wearing cotton pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt, dropped onto the sofa. Sherlock had his laptop open – again. He pulled in his feet as John sat.

“You’re not finished reading that thing yet?” John said. He picked up the remote control and turned on the television. “By the way, since you’ve gone all editor on me, you can help me finish it.”

Sherlock glanced up. “I’m reading Lestrade’s e-mail,” said Sherlock. “He’s got the Moriarty case now.”

John felt his stomach drop. A horrible sense of betrayal began to fill him. His arms felt weak with it. “Lestrade knows you’re alive?” he choked out.

Sherlock jerked his head up. He read John’s face, came to the correct conclusion, and sighed. “No. He doesn’t – and he mustn’t. I think you misunderstood me. I’m reading Lestrade’s e-mail. _His_ e-mail, not e-mail he’s sent to me. His inbox.”

“Ahh.” Sherlock Holmes had hacked into Chief Inspector Lestrade’s official e-mail and John Watson felt an overpowering sense of relief.

“You don’t approve?” Sherlock asked. He had gone back to reading.

John considered. “I generally wouldn’t care one way or another, but you _are_ using my laptop.”

“You’re dead, John. And I’ve blocked the IP tracking.”

He kept reading while John considered.

_You’re dead, John._

Obviously, Sherlock had had a lot more time to get accustomed to being dead than John had.

Dead. Lestrade thought he was dead. And the entire team at the yard. And Molly. And Mrs. Hudson. All the people he’d worked with at the surgery. The women he’d dated. The men he’d served with in Afghanistan. His scattered cousins. His friends from college.

“Right. I keep forgetting.” He pressed a bare foot up against Sherlock’s, nudging him with his toes. “Anything interesting?”

“He’s gained enough weight to require having his pants altered – I suppose that’s our fault, not keeping him on his toes anymore.” He glanced up at John, and they both smiled. “He’s seeing someone new – a woman named Alexis. He calls her ‘Minx.’ They’re planning a weekend getaway as soon as his promotion comes through.”

“Promotion?”

“Apparently.” Sherlock sounded bored.

John watched him read for a bit. He looked down at his still sore right hand and flexed it. The swelling had gone down but the knuckles and the back of his hand were bruised. He held it next to his left hand to compare the size of his fingers. He was still wearing the gold band – he’d removed the other rings, the ones that were decidedly feminine – and he pulled off the band and examined it. It was heavy, and worn to a brighter polish at the edges. He held it up and squinted. There was an engraving on the inside, but he couldn’t make it out.

“In perpetuum et unum diem,” muttered Sherlock.

John’s hand around the band tightened. “Forever…and a day.” His fingers opened again and he stared at the ring. An old sentiment, traditional. Romantic, even. Something curled in his stomach. “Where did you get this?”

Sherlock closed the laptop. He set it aside, on the table, and gave John his attention.

“It belonged to my grandfather,” he said, staring at the hand John had clasped over the ring.

Of course it did.

“Your grandfather,” John repeated.

Sherlock was staring at him. Assessing him. “You thought I took it off someone’s finger.” He brought his hands up and folded them under his chin. “Someone dead? No. Someone alive who didn’t want to part with it.”

John had gone sixteen months without having his mind read. His therapist hadn’t been one-tenth as good as Sherlock. He handed the ring back to Sherlock, unapologetic. “Look, those rings are going to be on and off my fingers all the time in the next couple of months. I’m not going to risk losing your grandfather’s ring. If you think I need a wedding band for this disguise, we can get one at a pawn shop.”

Sherlock placed the ring carefully on top of the laptop. 

“I know of several reputable pawn brokers in London,” he said. “We’ll avoid those, of course.”

“Of course,” said John. “Now, do you want to tell me how you got hold of that ring while you were gone today or are you going to pretend you had it with you this whole time?”

Sherlock didn’t answer immediately. “Successfully faking one’s death involves creating a new identity,” he said at last. He was staring at a stain on the ceiling. “Planning. Bank accounts. Identification. Safety deposit boxes.” He picked up the ring and looked through it, a curious smile on his face. “And there are some things I’d rather my brother not have.”

“How long were you planning, then?” John’s voice was flat. He really didn’t want to know that Sherlock had deceived him for far longer than the sixteen months he’d been gone.

“All my life,” said Sherlock, cryptically. “I began inventing Joseph Brenner when I was nineteen.”

“Nineteen.” What else did John not know about Sherlock?

“He’s been called to jury service twice now,” Sherlock volunteered. “He’s an eccentric. Old money. Haughty. Thinks rather highly of himself. Reminds me a bit of Mycroft, except that he dresses deplorably. You wouldn’t like him.”

“I don’t know. I learned to like Mycroft well enough.”

“Grows on you, doesn’t he?” mused Sherlock.

“Like toenail fungus,” said John.

It wasn’t all that funny, really, but Sherlock chuckled, then John chuckled, and they were both shaking with laughter and when they finally stopped, the tension in the air over when, exactly, Sherlock had decided to fake his death, was gone.


	3. The Practice Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock and John study women on the telly, John kisses Sherlock and Sherlock forgets about taking things slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the [Dead Men Don't Bleed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/817644/chapters/1547917) series.

-3-

The combination of the laptop’s monitor and the television’s screen flickering in the darkness reminded John of Saturday night lights on busy London streets. He stood, having every intention of giving in to his growing fatigue and crawling into bed between freshly washed sheets. He was completely surprised when Sherlock grabbed his hand and pulled him back down to the sofa.

“Look, John. Observe.”

Sherlock had the remote control in his hand and was flicking quickly through the channels. He’d pause from time to time, watch the action for a few seconds, a minute, maybe two, then move on. John finally understood that they were watching women. Women walking. Women talking. Women gesturing. Women flirting in bars. Women pushing prams. Women jogging with their dogs. Women running for a cab. 

“Look at their posture, John. Their pace. How they hold their arms. How they cross their legs on the bus or the park bench. How they hold their coffee cups.”

John wanted to argue that he knew women better than Sherlock. 

And he did. Decidedly. He _knew_ women better than Sherlock did. But Sherlock had him practice standing, and sitting, and crossing his legs. He hailed imaginary cabs, waved to imaginary friends, answered a mobile that wasn’t ringing, drank tea from an empty cup. 

When Sherlock was finished with him, he didn’t think he knew women at all.

Sherlock stopped on one channel and cocked his head a bit to the side.

John grabbed the remote.

“I’m not going to have to snog convincingly in an alley,” he protested. “Why don’t we find a woman’s football game?”

But Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on the television. “Look, John. Look at the differences. This could never be two men. Her posture is nothing like his.” He leaned forward, fascinated. “Both of her hands are in his hair. She’s not rutting. She’s pressing into him with her chest rather than her…lower half.”

John rolled his eyes. 

“Lower half?”

Sherlock’s hand darted out and he regained control of the remote. “And speaking of lower halves, as a woman, you’ll be using the women’s toilet.” 

“No.”

“Yes. You know the one. Silhouette of a woman on the door? Stalls with doors? Soap dispensers?”

John stood. “I’m off to reconsider this. And if you stay up all night observing women, _you_ can be the woman tomorrow.”

Sherlock’s eyes remained focused on the screen. The kissing couple had gone on to other more interesting things. “Look, John! She’d unbuttoning his shirt – carefully. Sliding her hand inside.”

“And I’m not practicing that, either. I _know_ how to unbutton a shirt,” he said as he rounded the corner and headed for the loo. 

“But the buttons on a man’s are opposite…” protested Sherlock.

The loo. How was he supposed to pull off using the women’s toilet? 

He took his time, brushing his teeth and checking the bruising and swelling on his face before heading off to bed.

Leaving Sherlock alone watching soft porn turned out to have been an excellent idea.

John was only steps away from the loo when he was pushed roughly against the corridor wall, hands pressed up beside his head. Sherlock was in his personal space, lips soft against his ear. 

“You need practice kissing like a woman.”

John stared at Sherlock. He didn’t try to free himself. He’d had precious little time to practice kissing Sherlock as a man to protest this opportunity.

“I think you said her hands were in his hair.” He tugged gently with his left hand.

Sherlock released John’s hands, but kept his own pressed to the wall, framing John’s head, as John circled Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down closer.

“Sod kissing like a woman,” he said, dropping one arm lower to circle Sherlock’s waist. He pulled him in against him. As with every time in these two short days he’d felt Sherlock’s body against him, he soaked up the warm flesh, the pulse of life, the absolute certainty that there was a beating heart beneath the skin, despite what he had felt, what he had _not_ felt, that last time.

It defied logic that he hadn’t asked for more of an explanation. That he didn’t need one.

That he didn’t _want_ one.

And despite it being John who was pushed against the wall, that it was Sherlock who had pressed his leg in between John’s, that kiss – that kiss was John’s. After a lifetime of kissing women, John knew how women kissed. Knew their yielding lips and soft bodies and the smell of their perfume, the feel of their fingernails on his neck, pressing through his shirt into the flesh of his shoulders. Kissing women was claiming their lips, tasting their mouths, drawing out their shudders when lips moved to neck and ear. Kissing women was smooth skin, and soft breasts pressed hard against him.

This kiss was so unlike those kisses that it existed in a different world altogether, a world where John was a novice, and Sherlock needed no tutoring. A world of hard lines and rough chins and familiar, comforting smells. John’s arm wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders, the fingers of his left hand pulling him down and forward, gripping neck and shoulder as Sherlock’s weight settled against him, as his mouth moved on his, open, breathy, melting against him as John’s mouth moved along his bearded jawline, then down his throat, pausing at the pulse point, over the carotid.

John’s lips pressed against the skin there, breath leaving him in a long, soft exhale. Sherlock’s hand tightened on his arse and John kissed the throat beneath his lips, working the flesh into a bruise, feeling the pulse of life just below the skin.

Frantic, suddenly, to feel more warm skin, he moved his lips lower, to the hollow of the throat, unbuttoning one button of Sherlock’s shirt with clumsy fingers.

But Sherlock brought his hands up to cup John’s head, to kiss _him_ , a press of lips grown hungry, his name exhaled on a barely-audible sigh. 

_John._

And their unspoken agreement to take things slowly evaporated as Sherlock dropped to his knees with unsurprising catlike grace, and mouthed him with warm breath through the fabric of his trousers before resting a long-fingered hand on the button, playing with it, playing with him, dipping his fingers beneath the waistband to skirt against his length.

And then his trousers and his pants were around his ankles, and Sherlock’s mouth was playing him and _fuck_ he’d had blowjobs before. Women, at his feet, in his bed, in the shower for Christ’s sake. Women who’d swallow, or who’d pull off just in time to stroke him with manicured hands, some fumbling, some clinical, some saying dirty things, pulling him over with their voices, but never, _never_ , anything like _this_ …Sherlock, at his feet, consuming him like he was _hungry_ , like he _needed_ this as much as John needed this. 

It took everything he had to keep his hands out of Sherlock’s hair, off his head and the still-healing wound, but where before, with anyone else, with _everyone_ else, he would have closed his eyes, now he kept them open and the sight of Sherlock, as much as the sensation – the _idea_ of it – fueled an orgasm so intense that his head throbbed with it, and dizzy, he slid to the floor.

He leaned forward when his head stopped throbbing, and kissed Sherlock, and in an odd turn-around, so exactly opposite of how it _should_ be, Sherlock held him close and whispered, “That was brilliant.”


	4. Mrs. Eddleston Wants to Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Sherlock see Mycroft and Lestrade, Sherlock bungles the case and John is dead no longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the [Dead Men Don't Bleed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/817644/chapters/1547917) series.

-4-

The best part of masquerading as a woman was the handbag.

His was a designer knock-off, but a good one, and it was roomy enough for his gun and the essentials from his medkit. Plus a razor, for touching up when they’d been out too long, and that odd creamy-powdery makeup Sherlock had tossed to him that first day in the new flat. 

“I’m a master of disguises, John,” he’d said enigmatically when John had asked him why he knew so much about women’s clothing and makeup.

The bag was also handy when Sherlock came strolling quickly out of an office building and passed him a bundle with a muttered “Put this in your bag.” 

The handbag held umbrellas – one for each of them – the kind that collapsed and folded onto themselves until they were compact little tubes.

The pockets of Sherlock’s trademark coat had served before, like an old-time peddler’s, but that coat was regrettably gone with Sherlock’s name. He wore a more casual one now, fitted, navy instead of black, and the knit hat to cover the bald spot where the stitches had been.

The lock picks still fit in Sherlock’s pockets. John kept a spare set in his bag.

They’d had to pick up a coat for John, as his worn one was decidedly male, decidedly _John_. The new one was a charcoal grey, fitted but plain. Nondescript. John and Sherlock, Pauline and Joseph. They were easily lost in shuffling crowds on tube platforms and London streets.

Sherlock had several pair of sunglasses to hide his eyes. John thought his own eyes nondescript enough to never give him away.

They spent most of their time inside the flat, with Sherlock’s fingers tapping incessantly at the keyboard, digging, researching, hacking while John took notes and responded automatically to his commands with the precision of a surgical nurse. John was not yet the most convincing of women, especially when he had to speak to someone. He had adopted an acceptable voice, low, throaty, but lost it when distracted or nervous. He’d gone into the men’s toilet twice already, and fumbled with the buttons on his coat far too often, not able to permanently commit to his brain and fingers that women’s buttons were opposite men’s. His habit of running his fingers through his hair when tired or upset was unfortunate given the wig – and one couldn’t spend the day in Sherlock’s company, no matter how overjoyed one was that Sherlock was living and breathing, without becoming angry, frustrated and horribly confused. 

The flat in Holborn was a two-room walk-up on the corner with a not-too-perilous ten-foot drop to the alley below. The telly was larger than any John had ever had, as was the bed, but then again, Sherlock took up more room in it than any bed partner he’d had in the past. The sublet had come fully furnished, which was fortunate, as they didn’t have a stick of furniture or a single teacup or spoon between them.

This flat, these temporary shared quarters, were the deepest roots Sherlock had had since he left his life behind sixteen months ago.

John might be Pauline on the streets of London, but his alter ego disappeared as soon as he entered the flat.

The wig first – pulled off, always aggressively, and chucked onto the sofa where Sherlock inevitably sat on it. The handbag had its own chair, a modern thing they both despised in faux fur patterned in a zebra stripe. The coat was tossed on top of the handbag, and he pulled off scarf and blouse and shirt while walking to the loo to wash his face.

Sherlock would be at the computer by the time he came out, face serious and focused. John would settle beside him, or across from him, and begin checking his list of news sources, and Googling his set of key words, and they’d share notes, and if John didn’t put the pieces together quite as fast as Sherlock, it was no matter. It was better than it was without Sherlock, different than it was before he fell. It was more comfortable without his mind always trying to sort out their relationship, to convince himself that this was what friendship was, that he could split his base needs into physical and emotional and satisfy them in different places, with different people.

And while John loved this Sherlock, he missed the old one. Sherlock had been focusing on this case for too long. It was wearing him, the worry, the possessive focus on a goal John understood only on the surface. Unravel Moriarty’s web. Reclaim his name. 

Give them back the life they’d once had, of chasing about London with coattails flying, John on his heels. John at his back. John at his side.

Two weeks had whirled by and they found themselves sitting on a bench along Birdcage Walk on a surprisingly mild February day, heads bent over newspaper and mobile, when Mycroft and Lestrade walked past them.

John looked up in time to see their faces, serious and drawn.

His stomach flopped. London was a big city. To see one of them, even this close to New Scotland Yard, would have been unusual. To see both together – the odds of that were astronomically low.

“That was interesting.” Sherlock was staring down the walk where the two figures were drawing further away. He stood. 

“You’re not going to follow them?” John said, very quietly, in his John voice.

“I should think not,” said Sherlock, with a tight smile. He watched his brother and the chief inspector disappear around a corner. “Let’s get back to the flat.”

John picked up his handbag, hefted it over his shoulder, and took Sherlock’s hand as they walked away in the opposite direction.

~*~

It only took Sherlock half the night to figure out why Mycroft and Lestrade had been walking together, so seriously, down Birdcage Walk on a Thursday afternoon.

John was sleeping soundly when Sherlock shook him awake.

“Trouble,” he said. “You’re no longer dead.”

John was sitting up, blinking, 

“What time…?”

“Two. They’ve given Lestrade the case. Rather hush hush. I don’t think the papers have hold of it yet.”

John stumbled out of bed. His stomach hurt. _Hurt._

“Fuck. What happened?”

“A Mrs. Eddleston reported you missing. Hadn’t seen you come by for scones in a more than a week.”

John leaned heavily against the wall, still blinking sleep from his eyes. 

“Christ, I should have thought of her. Damn - Sherlock – I’m sorry…”

Sherlock had dropped onto the bed. He shook his head. “Don’t be. I should have asked you. Completely missed that one. It’s always the old women, isn’t it? _Never_ discount them, John. Never.” He dropped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I’ve so completely bungled this one.” He glanced at John.

“What else?” asked John. “Why would they give Lestrade a missing person case?”

“The local constable checked the cottage as Mrs. Eddleston stood outside, wringing her hands. And while he found nothing amiss, they traced the ownership back to you, with a recent deed change. Then they contacted Mycroft.”

“Mycroft.”

“Mycroft, who believed you to be dead. Mycroft who has all the resources of the British government at his fingertips. Mycroft who asked for Lestrade. And Lestrade’s team saw what the local constable didn’t. Signs of a struggle. Blood. DNA everywhere.”

“DNA,” John repeated dully. “Not just mine.”

“They may think you’ve been murdered – or kidnapped – by a dead man.”

“By you.” John was staring at Sherlock, cursing his own stupidity. His carelessness. Everything he was not, hadn’t been, not before he and Sherlock came back from the dead, pummeled each other with fists and knees, revealed their secrets, bared their souls and emerged with the crazy idea to stay dead, together, in London.

Sherlock had drawn his knees up to his chest and was unusually still.

“Sherlock – did Mycroft know?” 

John had assumed he had. Someone had to have helped Sherlock. It would make sense that it was Mycroft.

“He helped,” answered Sherlock. “But it was a double blind, John.” He sat up again, and John sank onto the bed beside him, head in his hands. “He helped me set it up. But in the end, he thought it didn’t work. That his part in it failed. That I hit…too hard.” He shook his head. “Died anyway.”

“So he believed you were dead.”

“Yes.”

They were silent a long while. 

“Molly, then,” said John at last. “If not Mycroft, then Molly. You couldn’t have done it alone.”

Sherlock stared at the ceiling a while longer, before letting out a long breath. He never answered John’s question.

“Mycroft’s not going to be happy, is he?”

“No. Decidedly not. He paid for quite an impressive headstone.”

And it wasn’t funny. Not at all. But John choked back a laugh, and Sherlock’s shoulders shook, and they both fell backward onto the bed, completely overtaken with inappropriate laughter.

“So – you have a plan?” asked John when the laughter had subsided and they lay together, shoulder to shoulder, side to side, staring at the same patterns on the old plaster ceiling.

“I have a plan,” answered Sherlock. “But you’re not going to like it.”


	5. Expresso at Starbucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John surprises Lestrade at Starbucks, and Lestrade thinks John looks smart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the [Dead Men Don't Bleed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/817644/chapters/1547917) series.

-5-

John was not entirely happy with Sherlock’s plan.

It was senseless to deny, that was certain. DNA evidence was difficult to refute. Sherlock had come up with a ready explanation that Lestrade could pass off to the press if Sherlock’s name got out. But the explanation was unlikely to appease either Mycroft or Lestrade. The cottage had belonged to the Holmes’ family – to Sherlock, in particular – until John had taken it over and moved in. Sherlock’s DNA could have been anywhere – everywhere – in a speck of old blood, a flake of skin, a single hair. 

“They’ll have the suturing needle, of course, the bloody bandages from the bin, plenty of evidence to know that I’m alive. But I suspect they have been extremely cautious about what gets out and who sees the DNA results. We’d know what makes it into the papers within a day or two, but we can’t wait that long.”

“Are you certain?”

“You think I wouldn’t give my right arm to see the look on Lestrade’s face…?”

John grinned. “I think you would.” 

It wasn’t daybreak yet, but Sherlock thrived on adrenaline, and lack of sleep, and negligible caloric intake. And as bad as this was – as much of a bungled mess – John liked seeing Sherlock like this again. Caught up in the plan, the intrigue, seeing straight through the murky middle to the distant end.

“He’ll be at Starbucks on Victoria by seven fifteen. Rarely fails. He may be even earlier today, what with all that went down last night.”

Sherlock’s on-line sleuthing had revealed that the DNA test results came in just after four p.m. the previous day. They had seen Mycroft and Lestrade at four forty-five.

So John left the flat at six thirty and was sitting with coffee and scone at the Starbucks nearest the Yard when Chief Inspector Lestrade walked up to the counter and ordered his morning espresso.

He turned and scanned for a table, found an empty one, and took a seat.

John allowed him two long drinks before sliding into the chair across from him.

Lestrade blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Thought we might have a brief chat,” said John, using the voice to match his attire.

“A brief chat?” Lestrade was staring at him now, eyes narrowed, mouth drawn tight. 

John sighed.

Lestrade’s eyes bulged.

“John?”

It was a low hiss, accompanied by raised eyebrows and a look of disbelief so profound that John laughed.

Lestrade was leaning in, hissing at him. “Do you _realize_ …?” Leaning back again, rubbing his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. “Of _course_ you realize. Because he’s with you, isn’t he?” He glanced around, then leaned in again. “What the fuck is going on? We thought you were _dead_. _Both_ of you.” He looked down at his coffee and twisted the cup around, clearly agitated. “This is sick, John. You’re messing with people here, _friends_.”

“I’m not messing with anyone.” John kept his voice low and stopped trying to disguise it. “The whole thing is a bloody, unbelievable mess. I thought he was dead until two weeks ago when he broke into my cottage in the middle of the night, thinking he’d lie low at the old family vacation spot for a couple days now that he was back in the U.K.” Now John was staring at his cup. He lifted it to his lips and took a fortifying drink. “I was holed up there at my therapist’s advice, writing a memoir, not getting the news. I’d even left my mobile behind. She wanted me to _disconnect_.” He said the word as if it were something dirty. The laugh that escaped him was a bitter one. “He thought _I_ was dead. We had quite a scuffle in the dark before I got the better of him – well, before the table toppled over and my laptop hit him in the head.”

He could see the pieces starting to click together in Lestrade’s brain.

“You had to stitch up his head.”

John just nodded.

“Mycroft is irate.”

“Naturally.”

“Your sister. You need to contact your sister.”

“Christ – how did she…? Oh. Right. Mrs. Eddleston.” 

“The weak link. Not like Sherlock. Christ, John. He’s alive. _You’re_ alive. You can’t both stay dead, you know. That was your plan, I take it? And this?” He once more looked John up and down and shook his head. “That was his idea too, wasn’t it? Brilliant, really. Can’t believe you actually agreed to it.” He grinned, and it was the old Greg Lestrade, and something tugged in John’s gut. “Unless you like it, eh?”

He gave John another once-over while John attacked his scone. “Should have known you’d not put that outfit together on your own. It’s…classy.”

“Look,” said John, glancing around again and leaning even closer to Lestrade. “He’s rather anxious that no one else know he’s alive. He says you can explain his DNA handily enough – he used to own that cottage, up until the time he died and it passed to Mycroft.”

Lestrade didn’t comment on that piece. “What about you? How do we explain you taking off and leaving poor Mrs. Eddleston behind without a word?”

John didn’t like this part much, but he didn’t have a better idea of his own. “He suggests PSTD,” he said. “Hallucinations. Whatever you want to invent, really. Just say I’m in a private facility somewhere, getting intensive therapy.” 

Lestrade didn’t comment. He was staring at John, now at his left hand with its gold band and second ring, a web of silver with a large turquoise stone.

“You’re really going about London dressed as a woman.” In the face of not only John Watson rising from the dead, but the brilliant consulting detective Sherlock Holmes as well, Lestrade couldn’t seem to move past Dr. John Watson sitting in front of him looking quite smart in women’s clothing. He smirked. “Which toilet do you use? The ladies or the gents?”

John swallowed an irritated snort. He reached across the table and took Lestrade’s hand in his and leaned forward, whispering in the man’s ear.

“I’m wearing women’s clothing so I can go about London with _Sherlock Holmes_ again. And if this is the only way I can do that, at least in the short term, I’ll do it. Because I _missed_ it while he was dead. Tea and scones with Mrs. Eddleston doesn’t hold a candle to hanging about behind rubbish bins in London alleys.”

The look on Lestrade’s face changed. John didn’t want to analyze it too much, but was well aware that he’d likely just given away too much.

He changed the subject.

“Look, he’s back in London for a reason.” He gave Lestrade a serious look. “ _The case_ brought him full circle. He says it’s in your hands now – to close it once and for all. He wants to help. He’s been helping, actually.”

“He’s…ah.” 

“He suggests we meet at Mynx’s place tonight, since she’s out of town for a few days.”

“Minx’s? How…? Jesus Christ – the man is a menace!”

“Seven?” 

Lestrade let out an irritated puff of air then leaned forward once again. 

“I cried, John Watson. I actually cried when those reports came in and I realized you were both alive. Now…now I’m rethinking the emotion.”

John squeezed his hand.

“Don’t,” he said. “He’s … different. Still Sherlock, though. Decidedly, recognizably, irrefutably Sherlock.”

He stood, shrugged into his coat, buttoned the buttons correctly the first time. He hefted his bag onto his shoulder.

“Ta,” he said.

“What the hell is in that bag?” asked Lestrade.

“You don’t want to know,” answered John.

Lestrade sat for a while and finished his coffee. When he left the restaurant, it was with a burgeoning anticipation, a rising crescendo of excitement, that he hadn’t felt in well over a year.


	6. You Had Me Until Waterlilies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the brothers have a reunion, Mycroft gets punched in the nose and Sherlock has a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the [Dead Men Don't Bleed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/817644/chapters/1547917) series.

-6-

There wasn’t much of a chance that Lestrade could have followed John, given that he hadn’t left the restaurant by the time John ducked into the St. James Park station and lost himself in the maze of the Underground.

Still, he took an illogical route back to the flat.

Sherlock was pacing when John came in. He pulled off the wig and tossed it at the sofa. Sherlock reached out and caught it and tossed it unceremoniously onto the zebra chair. John plopped the purse down on top of it.

“Mycroft is coming to dinner,” said Sherlock.

John dropped his coat on top of the purse and untied the scarf.

“That fast, eh?” He headed back to the bedroom, unbuttoning the blouse as he went.

Sherlock was on his heels.

“Well?” His eyes were bright. John grinned.

“He complimented you – said you had good taste in picking out my _ensemble_.” He dropped shirt and blouse on the bed and pulled the bra over his head without unclasping it.

“You’re going to ruin that thing.”

“Then you can just buy me another. Blasted thing. I don’t know how women put up with them.”

He collapsed on the bed and Sherlock crawled over him, catlike, and stretched out along the wall.

“Did you tell him we’ve finally got our heads out of our arses and are shagging like rabbits?” Sherlock had the scarf in his hands and was pulling it back and forth through his fist.

“Rabbits?” John quirked an eyebrow. “No. Didn’t mention that. I expect he guessed, though.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock twisted the scarf around one of John’s wrists experimentally. “He’ll have told Mycroft then. Don’t be surprised if he presents you with a prenup tonight.”

John laughed as he rolled on his side kissed Sherlock.

“We have approximately nine and a half hours before I get to be humiliated in front of your brother,” he said. “Can we not talk about him until then?”

~*~

It was not the best of reunions.

There was shouting. Quite a bit of it, actually.

Not as much punching and bloodshed as the night Sherlock showed up at John’s cottage, but John would have gauged the tension a notch or two higher.

It must have killed Mycroft not to have the place surrounded with his people, but if any were there, they remained out of sight. Sherlock kept his arm around John’s shoulder as they walked toward the building’s entrance, and hummed, actually _hummed_ , a slow tune, to pace himself, John thought, and keep their steps unhurried.

They knocked on the door at five past seven, and Lestrade cracked it open.

Sherlock pushed in quickly.

John followed, pulling off the wig and unbuttoning the coat.

There was an awkward moment when Mycroft rose to his feet from his seat on the sofa, staring at Sherlock. 

Sherlock stood stock still, enduring the scrutiny.

Then Mycroft laughed. It wasn’t a kind laugh, or a forgiving laugh, or a relieved laugh.

“Those clothes! Brother of mine, what has become of you? Your doctor friend is dressed better than you are. Is this what comes of being dead? A deplorable lack of fashion sense?”

“Mycroft, really, leave him be. Your brother is alive, for God’s sake…” That was Lestrade. 

John wandered into the kitchen to look for something to drink.

The shouting began while he was pouring mediocre scotch into a wine glass. Mynx apparently drank everything from wine glasses. He couldn’t even find a coffee mug.

He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat with his scotch, untied his scarf and dropped it on the table, then pulled off the women’s rings and pulled the end of the scarf through them. He stuffed the entire thing into his two-tight pocket.

Most of the shouting was Mycroft’s. Sherlock did get a word or two in now and then. “Had to, you insufferable prig.” “Of course I appreciate what you did.” “Bruise? It’s a hickey, you dolt. Love bite. Have you never had one of your own?” “I happen to _like_ the beard….”

Lestrade had taken refuge in the kitchen now. John held up his glass and toasted.

“To brotherly love.” 

“Do you think they’ll come to blows?”

John shook his head. “Mycroft’s not dressed for it.”

“It’s a bit disconcerting seeing you with breasts, John.”

John glanced down and gave Lestrade a lop-sided smile.

“If you can put up with them, I’d like to give Mycroft a chance to be uncomfortable around me too.”

Lestrade clinked glasses with him again. 

The shouting in the other room continued.

“So,” said Lestrade. He grinned. “You and Sherlock…?”

John tipped his glass up and swallowed a healthy measure. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It has nothing to do with this get-up,” he said.

“Oh, I’m sure it doesn’t,” answered Lestrade. “Never pictured Sherlock as a ladies’ man.”

Glass shattered.

Lestrade peaked out into the other room.

“One of them knocked a trinket off the sofa table,” he reported. “Now they’re yelling at each other about breaking the crystal.”

Twenty minutes later, they were all sitting, uncomfortably, on the sofa and loveseat before the ornamental fireplace.

“Horrid sofa,” said Lestrade, apologetically. “Sorry about that, but it wasn’t me that suggested we meet here tonight.”

Mycroft was staring at John.

“Can’t you take that bloody thing _off_?” he said, staring at John’s chest.

“Can,” answered John. “Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed. He held out his glass to Lestrade, who tipped in another measure of the plebian scotch. He looked across at his brother. 

“Well,” he said. “I agree that it is best that you remain dead, at least until we unravel this last piece. But John, Sherlock.” He shook his head. “We’ve set him up for a private treatment facility outside London, as you suggested. As laudable as this disguise is, it is easier to hide a dead man than a living one.”

And he was right. Of course. 

“What happened to you?”

It was Mycroft again, attacking Sherlock. 

“Emotion, Sherlock? The joy of finding Dr. Watson alive obliterated all objective thought? Sixteen months of superb undercover work, never once even compromising your cover, nearly, I might add, toppling the entire network, and John Watson rises from the dead and wiggles his arse and you leave your blood and semen spattered all over a cozy cottage on the coast!”

John was on his feet and over the bloody tea table so fast that he actually managed to land a punch on the bastard’s nose before Lestrade had him around the midde, pulling him back and nearly tossing him on the couch beside Sherlock who looked somewhere between shell-shocked and delighted.

“Jesus Christ, John, he’s doing that on _purpose_ , to get a rise out of you.” Lestrade said. 

The problem was, Mycroft, as indelicate as he was, was right.

It was a morose group that sat around the kitchen table fifteen minutes later. John had taken off the offending brassiere and was having his third cheap scotch. Mycroft was holding an ice pack to his face. His nose wasn’t broken, and wasn’t even bleeding, but he was acting the martyr nonetheless. Sherlock was sitting across from John, staring at him. Studying him. Thinking. 

“We need a day,” said John, surprising them all. “Twenty-four hours. There’s got to be a better solution then sticking me in a treatment facility for a disorder I don’t have and letting Sherlock out on the run again.”

“They do work better together,” said Lestrade to Mycroft.

Mycroft took the ice pack off his nose.

“Yes, I’ve noticed. They’re quite passionate about each other.”

“Jealous?” said Sherlock. John bit back a smile.

Mycroft glared. John noticed that he now had a button missing from the collar of his shirt. The shirt that had probably cost as much as that enormous telly in their flat. Ha. The _button_ had probably cost as much.

“We shouldn’t wait another day,” said Lestrade when no one else seemed to have anything to say. “The Bristol paper has already picked up the story. They’ve linked you to _the_ Sherlock Holmes and discovered that you’ve been erroneously reported dead. It’s an evening publication – which means it’s out now and the _Times_ could have it by tomorrow.”

“But you can keep Sherlock out of it,” said Mycroft just as John said “They don’t know about Sherlock though, right?”

Lestrade frowned. “We can. We will. With a good cover story.”

Sherlock’s hand was gripping John’s, both of them resting on Sherlock’s leg under the table. 

“John sustains a fall. Head wound – bleeds a lot. Recalls the war.”

 _Recalls Sherlock Holmes bleeding out on the concrete at the foot of St. Bart’s_.

“Temporary black-out. Leaves the house and walks along the coast. Tracks washed away by the tide, of course. Keeps wandering until he’s discovered by an elderly couple walking their Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. Taken to their home, docile and complacent, but thoroughly confused. They give him a warm meal, plenty of tea. Finally gives his name, number and rank. Mycroft Holmes is contacted, and arranges for private treatment at his country home….”

“No. Not Waterlilies. You had me until Waterlilies.”

“Waterlilies?” asked Lestrade.

“Mycroft’s private estate. Inherited from our grandmere. Lovely place. Quiet, secure, immensely private.”

“You inherited a private estate and Sherlock got a cottage?” asked John.

“Mycroft was always her favorite,” said Sherlock, quite matter-of-factly. He raised an eyebrow and relaxed, just a fraction. John saw it in the very subtle way the tension left his shoulders. “Well, then?”

“God I’ve missed you, Sherlock,” said Lestrade, grinning.

“What about you, then?” asked John. He rubbed his fingers across Sherlock’s knuckles, dug his thumb into the palm of Sherlock’s hand. “If I’m at this estate for a few weeks….”

“At least three months. Your condition is quite serious, and we need the time.”

“…for a few months, then. Where are you?”

“I’m your therapist, John. I’m there too.”

“The staff, Sherlock! The staff will recognize you. This is ludicrous.”

“They won’t,” said Sherlock, even as John felt a smile creep onto his face. “I have a plan….”

To be continued in _Part Three: Waterlilies_


End file.
